


Lend her grace

by indiantea



Series: The Dark Stones of London [1]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gothic, Multi, Obsessive Behavior, PWP, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, voyeurism of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3475286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiantea/pseuds/indiantea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the prompt requesting Thranduil in Victorian London and ambiguous relationship between him and Vanessa Ives. "Something a bit bitter, gothic, heavy with promise and true bond."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lend her grace

Black silk, embroidered with pearls, slides off her shoulder, revealing right breast with a dark nipple. Vanessa does not wear corsets even for the most formal occasions, he knows. She is still holding glass with her champagne.

It’s not the drink that makes her giddy and aroused, Thranduil learned that. Some force of potent and dangerous nature turns her from a virgin into the lustful seductress. She told him once how she made her sister’s fiancée take her maidenhead but he feels the transition takes place again and again for her, even when she whores herself out of her senses to a man she sees for the first time, like now.

It is cleaner this time, though. A backroom in a duke’s house, not a muddy lane in Whitechapel. He knows better than to interfere with attempt to save her from herself. This… tryst is still safer than her being possessed by evil spirit for weeks on end, scraping her face with her broken nails or shouting till blood pours from her throat. One dirty fuck for her body is nothing if that saves her soul from torture by the power they cannot yet overcome.

Vanessa is his friend, he owes her that. When she found him on the outskirts of London, wounded and disorientated, she was the first not to question his sanity and believe him entirely. This world is so different from Mirkwood, and yet she believed him.

She laughs, slips her fingers into the glass and then wets her nipple with champagne. The movement is slow and mesmerizing, as she circles her nipple, looking straight at this man, who is by all signs ready to unbutton his trousers and take her right on the floor. Vanessa lightly scrapes the tip of her nipple and licks her lips. She is wild in her beauty and ugly at the same time.

Thranduil loves her now, but does not desire.

His duty is to stand watching, guarding, bringing her back when she comes off her pleasure to the realm of living.

He is content with that behind the curtain.

She would do the same, were he possessed with such need. She’s seen his scars.

Vanessa puts her glass on the table and sits close to it, pushing her skirts up. She does not have her underwear, too. The less dress, the easier to get inside her, she said once with her irises wide and dark, and Thranduil had to pin her to the wall and slap her face again and again, until she recognized him and ran away. That time she was not that deep in her vision, and he found her on the kitchen floor, crouched in front of the hearth, exhausted, hand with a spoon still under her skirt.

Now she is trembling with want. Skirts on her waist, she spreads her legs wide, white skin contrasting with her blood red stockings with black garters. She has thing for garters, a particular pair for every stockings, and the way she moves her hand over her knee and up to it, ruffling at the lace, is more obscene than any sight of her fully naked and offering herself.

But she is offering, and this man (a banker? or a baronet?) shoves down his trousers and thrusts into her roughly, in one ungraceful motion, and Vanessa cries out, arching her back. Thranduil hears a note of pain in her voice. She once told him she was still very tight and preferred fingers first to prepare her.

But not when pain is the punishment. Or so she thinks.

The man thrusts hard into her, making her cry with every move. She breaks her beauty like a butterfly at the glass every time she gets herself on the cocks of those unnamed men. There was a police officer that took her on her knees and nearly strangled her (he lives no longer), there was a priest whom Vanessa had driven mad riding him on the bench in the church (monastery, strict rules), there was a butcher who bit her breasts with his teeth until they bled (no more teeth to bite).

There was an ethereal boy barely out of college who had strength to hold her beneath the tree in Highgate and pleasure her with his tongue and mouth until she let her tears run of joy. That night she slept like she had all peace in the world.

The boy was safe from his cousin’s poison, but vampires did not let him last long.

She cries out loud now, hands scrambling over the table, and glass with champagne falls down to the floor. Her face contorts with anticipation of having that pleasure she seeks so guiltily. Man’s hands are roaming over her breasts, pressing and pinching them. There will be marks tomorrow, and Vanessa will compare them to his scars. And maybe offer herself again, half-jokingly then, as she likes when her thirst for fucking is temporarily quenched. Thranduil loves her like that, both of them aware there is nothing good for them even in trying.

But she will glide her fingers over her marked breasts anyway and lean onto his chest for comfort, as always, and they will be closer than ever will be if they were laying together.

Maybe someday, the moment they part forever.

Vanessa shakes violently, head banging on the table, and utters a hollow shriek, crying, tears streaming down her reddened face. The man follows her with one last move, breathing rattled, legs quivering disgustingly.

When he leaves, trousers half-buttoned, Vanessa still lays on the table like a discarded doll. Thick trickles of semen run down the inner sides of her tights.

 ***

“May I stay?”

“Of course.”

She washes in his room by the fire. The water must be cold now, but Vanessa does not mind. She carefully wipes between her legs with her white underskirt and stands still with her arms raised waiting for the water drops to dry. Fire outlines her, makes her dark and willowy and trembling slightly. She looks like a Necromancer, and that thought makes him shudder.

“Come here.”

She always lays on top of covers, and Thranduil brings a warm shawl over her. With accustomed ease, she unbuttons his shirt and snuggles closer. Her breasts are extremely soft against his scars.

“Let me.”

He takes pins out of her hair. A dozen or so are certainly lost on that table.

“I am tired.” Vanessa rubs her eyes like a child, hair tickling his neck. Next time he shall comb it.

He kisses her temple, not ready to let her into nightmare-ridden sleep she shall get.

“What have you seen in your vision?”

It must be something significant. She screamed all the way back in the cab, and he had to drag her up the stairs until she slumped on the carpet to spring back too alert soon after. And now sleepiness is on her again.

Vanessa lifts her head and looks at him, black circles under her eyes making her the image of death these Christians are so afraid of. Her smile is crooked and not kind.

“The Master of vampires is back with his host.”


End file.
